


To Warm the World

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Desire, M/M, Questionable uses of scant medical knowledge, Sharing Body Heat, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Thomas Jopson learned all about the dangers of exposure during a previous expedition to Antarctica. When he's tasked with warming up Edward Little, however, he discovers dangers of an entirely different kind.





	To Warm the World

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "The Sun Rising" by John Donne:
> 
> Thou, sun, art half as happy as we  
> In that the world’s contracted thus.  
> Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be  
> To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.  
> Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;  
> This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

The day was bound to come eventually and it did, during the darkest months of that first winter frozen off the coast of King William Land. It was the day Thomas Jopson had both longed for and dreaded, the day he had tried to avoid using the only tools at his disposal: denial and avoidance and self-recrimination. He had found flimsy reasons to leave a room when Edward Little entered it; he had given no sign by look, word, or gesture that he noticed the lieutenant’s too-frequent glances, much less the way they set his body aflame. He had flinched from accidental brushes of fingers or sleeve, holding himself tight until released from his duties, when in the privacy of his cabin he could collapse beneath the unendurable weight of the desire each meager contact stoked inside him.

But his cheeks were traitorous, reddening at the slightest provocation, and his hands had a tendency to tremble with excitement, a noticeable trait in the man who poured the drinks at the mess table. And try as he might, he could not prevent his eyes from seeking the lieutenant out, from tracing every angle of his body and imagining his hands moving slowly over the same terrain.

It could not endure forever, this uneasy stalemate. Something was bound to break it, and that something was John Bates.

***

The sudden crack was distinctly different from the sounds the pack made - sharper, closer, more abrupt - and the boom and tremble of the ship that followed left no doubt. Running footsteps could be heard on the deck and in the passageway outside, and Crozier was halfway across the cabin, cursing under his breath, when the door flew open and Hodgson rushed in.

“It’s Bates, sir. He climbed the foremast - a lark or a dare, I don’t know - the starboard yardarm snapped and he fell. Two others are down too. All trapped beneath the spar.”

Crozier was already pulling on his coat, Jopson struggling to help him. “Who’s up there?”

“Irving was on watch. And Mr. Blanky was on deck — I believe they’re both uninjured. Little’s just gone up.”

“Last reading we had it was 46 below,” Crozier growled through teeth gritted in anger or worry or some combination of the two. “They stay exposed much longer and they’ll all be frozen through.” He let Jopson finish wrapping a muffler about his neck, then jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Get Mr. Diggle to heat some water, Thomas, then go to the sick bay and tell the doctors to hold themselves ready--"

“It’s only Dr. McDonald, sir,” Hodgson said, struggling with his own muffler. “Dr. Peddie’s gone to _Erebus_.”

Crozier cursed again. “Then tell McDonald, and hold yourself in readiness to help, Thomas. You may be called to an assistant-surgeon’s tasks today.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jopson followed hard on the captain’s heels as he and Hodgson rushed to the aft ladder. He ran first to the sick bay and found McDonald already clearing a table, having heard the sounds of what could only be disaster aloft. He went to the galley then, and the cook put him to work filling basins with water. Other men, who’d been taking their ease until the accident, were hauling on their gear and rushing up the ladder, until suddenly the press of bodies reversed direction and frost-encrusted men began streaming back down, the injured carried between them. Bates was alive and moaning incoherently, but his leg was stuck out at an unnatural angle; another man, whom Jopson recognized as Seaman Lawrence, was bleeding from a head wound. The third, Seaman Berry, was able to walk unassisted but was clutching his left arm, the sleeve of his coat torn almost in two.

“I’m all right, I can manage,” Berry was insisting. “Rough end just snagged me on me arm, is all.”

“I’ll still need to exam it, lad,” McDonald told him, bustling by and directing the men carrying Bates and Lawrence into the sick bay. 

Jopson waited until the injured men had passed, then edged over to Crozier who’d just come down the ladder and was brushing snow from his sleeves. “What can I do, captain?”

“We need Mr. Honey, Jopson. The port yardarm might be unstable--"

“I’m here, sir!” The carpenter fought his way forward through the milling crowd, pulling on his coat.

“I wouldn’t send him out to do that work now, Francis,” Blanky said. The man was so well bundled up, his face nearly covered, that Jopson hadn’t recognized him until he spoke. “It’s blowing up a gale and the temperature keeps dropping, he’ll freeze to the mast.”

Francis nodded. “But we need to get the deck cleared, at least. What in God’s name was Bates thinking?” he cried.

“Don’t think he was thinking, that’s the point.” Blanky answered.

Crozier pointed at Hodgson. “Check Bates’s sea chest, see if he’s got spirits stowed away. Maybe that can explain his behavior. The rest of you,” he gestured at the group of officers around the base of the ladder, “come with me, we’ll see what we can do about setting the deck aright.”

“Not Edward,” Blanky said, “he rushed up there without proper gear. He spends another minute out in it and he’ll lose both hands, if not worse.”

Jopson started. He hadn’t noticed Little, standing behind Irving, but now he saw that the lieutenant was wearing only his great coat, with no muffler, no cap, and no full gloves to protect his fingers. His cheeks were almost blue and his dark hair completely white with ice and snow. 

It seemed to be the first time Crozier had noticed Little’s condition, too, for he gave an agonized snarl. “Dammit, Edward!”

“I’m fine, sir.” The words were stuttered out one syllable at a time, so violently was he shaking.

“You’re not fine!” Crozier looked wildly from Little toward the sick bay, where McDonald and three or four hastily recruited helpers were rushing around a flailing, moaning Bates. Without thinking, Jopson stepped forward.

“Captain, I can tend to Lieutenant Little,” he said. “Dr. McDonald has his hands full with the others. I'll get him warmed up while you're on deck.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Jopson realized the very great danger into which he had just stepped. But the foreboding passed and, faced with a task that needed to be accomplished, he thought no more of it. Crozier nodded.

“See to him, Thomas. Get the whiskey from my cabin, that should warm him.”

Jopson was already moving. He grasped Little by the arm - the wool of the lieutenant’s coat was almost too painfully cold to touch - and half-pulled him along the passageway. Reaching Little’s cabin, Jopson pushed the other man inside, then rushed to the great cabin for fresh towels and the bottle of whiskey he kept, ready for Crozier’s cravings, in the sideboard. When he returned to the first lieutenant’s cabin, he found Little still standing in the same place and position, trembling uncontrollably.

“We need to get you out of those wet clothes, sir,” Jopson said, sliding the cabin door shut behind him. Little seemed barely cognizant of his words. Rushing forward, Jopson grabbed hold of the front of the lieutenant’s coat, hissing with surprise when his fingertips made contact with the frozen brass buttons. He fought through the pain, warming the next button between the ends of his sleeves momentarily, working as fast as he could in this manner until the coat was unfastened and he could push it from Little’s shoulders.

“M-my hands,” the lieutenant stammered, “numb.”

“I know, sir. We’ll get them warm.” Jopson’s fingers flew over the buttons of Little’s waistcoat next, then he untied the ice-encrusted neckcloth, pulling loosened cloth and shirt together over Little’s head once he’d gotten the lieutenant to raise his arms. One of the bone buttons at the neck of his shirt snapped and shot across the floorboards, but Jopson had no time to worry about that: he could mend it later. Whether or not the lieutenant himself could be mended was his biggest concern.

In the deep of the night Jopson had often lain awake in his bunk, imagining himself undressing Edward Little. He had tried to picture in his mind every contour of the lieutenant’s body, freed from the strictures of Naval broadcloth, and how each curve and plane and hollow would feel beneath his tracing fingertips, his flattened palms. But now, with the lieutenant half-naked before him, Jopson had no leisure for such a study. All he noticed was that the flesh of Little’s chest was little less blue than his face, and Jopson didn’t like that at all.

“Sit down,” he ordered, first tearing the blankets from Little’s bunk. Grabbing one of the towels he’d brought from the captain's cabin, Jopson rubbed it briskly over Little’s chest, back, and arms, not even attempting to be gentle, trying to rouse the least color back into his skin. He took the blankets and draped them around Little’s shoulders, pulling the edges tight and tucking the ends in against his chest. Then he passed the towel quickly over Little’s head, tousling his dark hair and sending ice crystals flying in a million directions. Finally, kneeling in front of the lieutenant, Jopson grasped both his hands.

The exposed tips of his fingers, to Jopson’s great relief, were blue but not blackened. Carefully he eased off the sodden, fingerless mittens, then began to chafe Little’s hands between his own. “How are your feet?” he asked. “Did they get wet?”

Little shook his head. “No-- boots kept dry-- Just hands--"

Jopson shook his head, a surge of irritation eclipsing his better judgment. “How could you be so foolish?”

Little’s eyes went wide with what Jopson could only guess was an indignation his mouth was yet too numb to voice. “The men-- I hadn’t time--"

“And what use will you be if you’ve done yourself an injury, hmm?” Jopson rubbed at the lieutenant’s hands harder, almost hoping it hurt. But Little seemed unaffected, even when Jopson moved up to his wrists and forearms. “Are you sure your hands are the worst of it?”

A nod sent droplets of melted snow dripping down the bridge of Little’s nose. “Y-yes.”

“We still need to get your boots off. But let’s get these hands warmed up first.”

Jopson was fairly certain that Little wasn’t in danger of losing his life to the cold, nor had he yet seen any signs of frostbite. But the lieutenant’s discomfort was clearly acute. He continued to tremble, teeth clattering sharply, and no matter how hard Jopson rubbed them he seemed unable to coax warmth back into the other man’s hands.

He tried to think of what he’d learned on the Antarctic expedition with Crozier and Ross. The surgeons on that voyage had given lectures during the long winter months, and one had been focused on the rudiments of survival in cold climates…

Turning away for a moment, he fetched the bottle of whiskey and twisted off the cap. As Little’s hands were still too numb to use, Jopson put one hand beneath the other man’s chin and tipped his head up, placing the mouth of the bottle to his lips. “Here — see if you can’t get some of this down.” Little obeyed, swallowing several gulps despite his chattering teeth. Then Jopson quickly unbuttoned his own coat and waistcoat, and pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. “Give me your hands.” Little lifted them and Jopson took them in his own, placing them beneath his shirt and flat against his bare stomach. He winced at the sting of the lieutenant’s cold flesh, covering Little’s hands with his own to keep them steady and in place, only belatedly noticing how round Little’s eyes had grown as he met his gaze.

“Body heat, sir,” Jopson explained. He had been too busy before to give much thought to all he was doing, and he forced himself not to give in to such considerations now, lest he be lost to them. “Best way to warm someone. Bare skin on skin, that’s the most effective way to transfer heat. Learned that in Antarctica.”

Little gave what might have been a nod, or simply another violent tremor. “H-help,” he murmured.

“Helping?” Relief flooded through Jopson when Little nodded. But it was only temporary. Letting go of one of Little’s hands, Jopson reached beneath the blankets cloaking the lieutenant and laid his fingers tentatively against the man’s sternum. It was still abysmally cold.

He didn’t allow himself time to deliberate the wisdom of what he was about to do. “Can you tuck your hands under your armpits, sir?” he asked, releasing Little’s hands and pushing them back toward his torso. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Little did as Jopson asked, watching curiously as the steward shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat. Too keenly aware of the lieutenant’s dark eyes upon him, Jopson averted his gaze, concentrating hard on a knot in the wall boards while he untied his neckcloth and dragged his shirt up and over his head. 

“Lay back, sir. I’ll get your boots.” Jopson was pulling his own off, but Little didn’t stir. “We need to get your chest warm, sir, and this is the best and quickest way.” He pushed the other man down gently, easing the blankets from around his shoulders at the same time. At the end of the bunk he tugged Little’s boots off, then touched his stockinged feet to assure himself they were dry. “Now — I’ll try not to crush you too much, sir.” Jopson pulled the blankets around his own shoulders, then carefully eased himself down upon the other man, supporting his weight on his hands until he’d slotted his legs to rest on the bunk between’s Little’s own. He laid his bare chest flush against the lieutenant’s, and angled his head to rest his chin on Little’s shoulder.

“Slide your hands between us. That will see them heated up too.” 

Jopson raised himself a few inches and Little obeyed, dragging both numb hands up to lay upon his stomach. Settling himself back down again, Jopson could feel Little’s knuckles dig into his abdomen. He reached behind himself to make sure the blankets were covering them both, trapping as much body heat as possible beneath their layers. “I apologize for the awkwardness of this, sir,” Jopson murmured. Little was shaking violently enough to dislodge the steward and send him tumbling to the floor, so Jopson braced himself more securely, one hand against the wall of the bunk, one clasping Little’s arm. 

“Don’t-- apologize--“ Little stammered out, his chattering teeth punctuating each syllable. “You’re so-- w-warm--"

“I’ve been in the galley helping Mr. Diggle heat basins of water over the stoves. You’d be warm after that too.” Jopson laughed a little and then they both lapsed into an awkward silence. In that absence of speech and activity, Jopson was conscious of each individual bone in Little’s fingers, the shape of his hands, the tempo of his breath, and the spark of thought that he'd endeavored to ignore became a conflagration in his brain. He had managed until that moment to resist sensation: now it all came suddenly in a warm, hard rush to the forefront of his mind. He realized that his heart was pounding, that it was racing with such speed and force that Little would surely have felt it, had he not been trembling so violently.

“That shivering should ease soon, sir.” Jopson spoke for his own benefit, not for Little’s: he’d have recited the alphabet forwards and backwards if it would have distracted him. But nothing could. Now that he was where he was - and acutely aware of it - his mind began to take stock of everything he could feel, every point where his body pressed against the lieutenant’s. The firm swell of Little’s right bicep cupped beneath his left palm; the end of the lieutenant’s clavicle protruding from his skin near the spot where Jopson’s chin rested. He could feel the hair of Little’s chest tickling against one of his nipples, and every shudder of the lieutenant’s muscles echoed through his own body, producing fresh bursts of heat. Each breath he took was full of Little’s scent, of wool and soap and sweat, and he had only to open his lips a little, extend his tongue, and he would know - finally - how the lieutenant tasted.

_Stop. Stop this._

“Feeling any warmer?” Jopson murmured, not trusting himself to open his mouth more than was absolutely necessary to form the words.

“Y-yes. Starting to, I t-think.”

Jopson’s neck was beginning to ache from keeping his head perched upright, so he turned it to the side, facing Little, and rested his right cheek on the lieutenant’s shoulder. It was a horrible decision. With the tip of his nose mere inches from Little’s chin, Jopson could easily imagine their current position as the aftermath of passion, he nuzzling his head against his lover as they recovered their strength. How many times had his fantasies ended just so, his body draped over Little’s in satisfied exhaustion? The thought sent new tendrils of excitement running like veins of lava through Jopson’s body, pooling in places it was imperative he not think about now.

_Don’t. Don’t notice. Don’t feel._

But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help noticing how the hours of the day had effaced the work of Little’s razor, dusting his cheeks and throat with stubble. Couldn’t help admiring the length of the eyelashes framing the night-dark eyes that stared at the ceiling above them. Couldn’t help feeling the breadth and solidity of the chest beneath his own, or - God help him - the tantalizing shape of the manhood beneath his thigh. His fingertips ached to stroke and grip and caress.

“I can feel my hands again, at least,” Little told him, and Jopson could barely hear him behind the rush of blood flooding past his eardrums. “Pins and needles.” The lieutenant wiggled his digits experimentally against Jopson’s stomach, and Jopson bit down on a groan.

_This was a mistake._

“I’m sorry,” Little added softly, and Jopson’s heart lodged itself in his throat. He had hoped that the sensation of gathering pressure in his groin had just been his imagination, though he feared otherwise. If the lieutenant had noticed it, how on earth would he explain it away?

“For what?” he forced himself to ask.

“For being foolish, as you rightly said. For making you have to do this.” 

Jopson lifted his head as far as was comfortable so he could meet Little's gaze. “I didn’t say that because I was angry at having extra work. I said it because I didn’t want you to be hurt.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “I was worried about you, sir.”

“Edward.”

“I’m sorry?”

The smallest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Little’s lips. “Please call me Edward. I’ve asked you before, Thomas. Surely this qualifies as a moment when we might use one another’s Christian names? We’re alone. And you're laying on top of me.”

Whether it was the teasing tone of Little's words, or the hint of an insinuation behind them - or simply the force of his desire - Jopson didn't know, but he could endure the situation no longer. “You should slide your hands out now,” Jopson breathed in a rush. “Keeping them still will just make it worse.” He raised himself again to allow Little to remove his hands, and it was another of the incalculable errors he’d made that afternoon, for it gave Little an opportunity to shift beneath him. It was a tiny movement, the least little pivot of his hips, but it was more than enough to create the friction Jopson’s whole body was straining, keening, begging to feel. The hard nub of a nipple rubbed against the skin of Jopson’s sternum and he could no more suppress the whimper that rose from his throat than he could melt the ice and set the ships at liberty.

He covered it with words. “I should probably let you--"

“Wait a moment.”

Jopson could feel Little flexing his hands beneath the blankets on either side of him. Then, abruptly, the lieutenant turned his head to face him, their eyes meeting, mouths obscenely close. Jopson’s awareness fragmented between a dozen sensations: the dampness of his palm against Little’s bicep, the awkward position of one ankle, the heat in his groin, the syncopation of their breaths. But in the space of a single heartbeat, all these things were burned away.

One of Little’s hands came to rest on the small of Jopson’s back. The steward froze as fingers spread apart and slid, a soft exploratory touch, trailing slowly up along the path of his spine. The lieutenant’s eyes, fixed on his, were almost black now, pupils fully blown, and this look - almost more than his touch - filled Jopson with intolerable heat, a heat that burned through every scruple, every fear. One finger pressed more firmly as it moved, the heel of Little’s hand following behind. The tips of their noses brushed, and Jopson’s lips fell open - on a word of protest, maybe, on a gasp of awe - and then suddenly they were filled, slotted between the lieutenant’s own.

There was not even a second’s hesitation. Jopson angled his head to accept Little’s mouth more deeply and pulled himself higher atop the lieutenant’s body. Both of Little’s hands were on his back, moving in great sweeps, his touch no longer light but grasping, kneading, surging up to grip Jopson’s shoulders before falling to caress as much bare flesh as they could reach. The lieutenant’s tongue slid against his and Jopson lapped back at the warm wetness of Little’s mouth, need and instinct taking the reins of control. Excruciatingly hard, Jopson rubbed against Little, gasping at the mirrored arousal he found beneath him, digging stiff into his thigh.

“We can’t,” he gasped, breaking the kiss. He intended to pull away, meant to, but he lacked the strength. He turned his head to avoid Little’s lips, but the lieutenant merely began mouthing along the line of his jaw instead, a wet, hungry action that was somehow more obscene. “We start down this road-- we-- we won’t be able to stop--"

“Don’t want to stop,” Little whispered, and he nibbled down Jopson’s throat, the tip of his tongue pressing forward to mark a trail along the steward’s skin. “Want you, Thomas…” 

Jopson moaned. Reckless with desire, he dropped his head, kissing ravenously past the hollow of Little’s throat. He slid himself down, far enough to find a taut nipple, and he pulled it between his lips for a fleeting second, felt it hard and smooth against his tongue, before Little dragged him up again, their mouths meeting. It wasn’t so much a kiss as a collision, a wild and desperate tasting. 

“We can’t,” Jopson repeated, and it was almost a sob, for at the same time he allowed himself the brief, searing torment of rolling his hips against Little’s, their clothed erections grinding together, any relief in the movement immediately effaced by sharper, crueler need. “God help me,” Jopson whimpered - aloud or just in his head, he wasn’t sure - and he wanted to move again, wanted to rock himself to mindless bliss on Little’s cock. The lieutenant was breathing hard against him, nibbling at his chin as his hands groped down over Jopson’s buttocks, and it would be so easy, Jopson knew, now that their feelings for one another had been acknowledged, to stop thinking, to simply let go. 

But he couldn’t.

“Someone will catch us,” he gasped out, and with an effort of will that almost broke him, Jopson pulled himself out of Little’s reach. He scrambled off the bunk, freeing himself from the clinging blankets and the wet heat of the lieutenant’s body, and immediately began to dress, pulling on his boots, his shirt, his waistcoat, all while trying not to look at Little or think about the throbbing ache in his groin.

“Thomas.”

Against his better judgement, Jopson paused. Little was leaning up on one elbow, his dark eyes liquid in the light of the cabin’s single lamp, and he extracted one arm from the pile of blankets and reached out for the steward. When Jopson didn’t move to take his hand, Little let it fall.

“Come to me tonight.”

Jopson’s mouth opened, but his tongue was a lead weight that could form no sound. The offer that he’d scarcely dared to imagine, even in his wildest fantasies, had been made, and he found himself struck utterly dumb, his mind running on ahead to possibilities: the best time to leave his cabin, the squeakiest boards to avoid treading on to make as little noise as possible as he moved. But Little mistook his silence for hesitation.

“Please,” he said, and there was no disguising the plea in his tone. “We can’t deny this any more. Lay with me. Let us both be done with this misery.”

Before Jopson could answer, there was a knock on the cabin door. “Lieutenant, it’s McDonald here. May I come in?”

Hastily, Jopson buttoned up his waistcoat, throwing Little a glare that clearly said _I told you so_. “Yes, Dr. McDonald, come in.”

As McDonald slid the door open, Jopson picked up his coat and bundled it in front of him, concealing the all-too noticeable bulge in his trousers. He swept his free hand over his tousled hair and offered McDonald a smile.

“Got him out of his wet clothes, sir, and rubbed some life back into his chest and hands.” Jopson hoped his voice didn’t sound as strained and breathless to McDonald’s ears as it did to his own. 

“Very good, Mr. Jopson. I’ll just have a look and make sure there’s no permanent damage. Yes, I can see you’ve been well cared for, lieutenant,” the surgeon said, edging over to Little’s bedside and looking down at the lieutenant’s face with a smile, “your cheeks are as red as a maid’s. How are you feeling?”

“Much improved. Jopson’s been a great help.”

Their eyes met around McDonald’s side and Jopson bit down hard on his tongue, hoping the pain might curb a fresh wave of arousal. He tasted blood. “I’ll be out of your way now, sir.”

He didn’t breathe again until he’d reached his cabin and closed the door at his back.

***

On Crozier’s orders, Little kept to his cabin for the remainder of the day to rest. It hardly made things easier for Jopson. His hands were still shaking so hard at supper that he sloshed the wine upon the tablecloth at least five times, and once nearly upset a tureen of soup. Fortunately the officers who were present seemed too exhausted by the afternoon’s events to even notice, let alone comment upon his uncharacteristic sloppiness. It spared him one awkward lie, at least.

Released from his duties for the night, he went to his cabin, pulled off his boots and outer layers, and lay down upon his bunk in trousers and shirtsleeves, not even bothering to pull any blankets over himself first. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, and he seemed incapable of feeling the cold. He was nothing but heat and nervous energy, his thoughts racing faster than he could process them. His career in the Royal Navy, the captain’s admiration - his poor father back in London, reliant upon his wages - all seemed to dangle from the thinnest of threads above a chasm of ruin. And yet even the fear of that chasm could not stir Jopson like the thought of Little’s mouth against his.

When the ship lay dead around him, silent save for the perpetual moan of the ice, Jopson left his cabin and made his way as slowly and silently as possible through the wardroom to the starboard passageway. A band of light at the base of Little’s door showed that the lieutenant was still awake. Laying one hand against the wood, Jopson paused, his resolution wavering until he remembered the hard flesh of a bicep beneath those very fingers and how alive it had made him feel.

Little was sitting on the edge of his bunk, an open book in his hands, when Jopson entered. Neither of them spoke. There was no need. As Jopson slid the door closed and latched it, Little shut his book and laid it on the small desk at the side of his bunk. Then he pushed the blankets aside and held out his hand.

This time, Jopson took it. 

Their fingers interlaced, and Jopson turned aside to the desk to douse the oil lamp burning there. But Little gave a small shake of his head.

“I want to see you.”

The words nearly brought Jopson to his knees. He turned fully to face Little, reaching out to brush his fingers softly down the side of the lieutenant’s face. Little turned his head to press his lips against Jopson’s fingertips, suckling softly at each one before the steward drew them away.

Shaking almost as uncontrollably as Little had that afternoon, Jopson gripped the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, letting it drop to the floor. Gaze sweeping over the chest bared before him, Little laid both hands against Jopson, running his fingers up through the black hair that trailed down the steward’s stomach, over the rise of his pectorals and his small, hard nipples, down his sides to his waist. Encircling Jopson with his arms, Little pulled him forward and lay his head against the other man’s stomach with a sigh, the release of a breath long and desperately held. For a time they stayed like that, marveling at their intimacy, Jopson running his fingers slowly through Little’s hair. Suspended with anticipation on the edge of something they could never return from, Jopson let all thought of consequences drift away and gave himself over to pure feeling.


End file.
